North Guardian Angel and Such

 03/30/26

I've had my eye on North Guardian for a fat minute. How could I not? Pointy, prominent and precipitous, this thing is a sight to behold. I've wanted to venture to its summit ever since I first laid eyes on it while driving up the KTR, the massive, triangular pyramid of white sandstone infinitely alluring. But I had to wait for the right time and the right moment, had to get some other summits under my belt to build up experience and whatnot. And so, as the days passed one after the other, I was left to gaze at its majesty from other vantage points, observing the summit from both of the Northgate Peaks, from Kinesava and Tab Dome and Moqui Peak and Lambs Knoll and every dang-nab time I drove up the dang-nab KTR. Had to be patient. Had to wait for the right day.

Well, the day finally came, a day of clear skies, cool temps, nice visibility, and not a drop of snow to be seen. At long last, after nearly a month of waiting, I finally set out to climb what would soon turn out to be one of my favorite peaks of all time.

Northgate Peaks trail

I set out on the Wildcat Canyon trail, the mid-morning sun nice and warm. Various folks were out and about, some heading to the Northgate Peaks overlook, others to the junction with the West Rim Trail. I carried on with a steady gate, making a right towards the Northgate Peaks overlook and walking straight to it without stopping once. No one else was there; had the whole place to myself.  I took a quick break, snapped some photos. North Guardian begged for attention, rising precipitously to the south, its northeast ridge lookin' scary yet interesting. Ahh yeah. This was gonna be a good one. 

North Guardian from the overlook

I hurriedly made my way off the overlook, following the same social trail that I used for East Northgate Peak. Instead of continuing to that peak I curved right and headed into a dry wash, following several footprints in the cold, soft sand. A little while later, a well-worn use trail took me out of the wash and led me onward, weaving in and around manzanita and cactus and shrubs and pines and stuff. At times it kinda petered out, but for the most part it was pretty easy to follow. Not that you really need to follow it; the dang mountain is gigantic and in-your-face and you basically just have to walk towards it. 

I eventually reached the end of the use trail and began a short, scrambly climb up to a saddle. I zig-zagged up the thing, the going no more difficult than class 2/3. I'd stop every now and then to catch my breath, gazing at the views to the north. West Northgate and Pine Valley Peak dominated the view, two towering monoliths of white sandstone rising out of a carpet of tiny green trees. Gazing upon their magnificent brought to mind something a coworker mentioned a while back: the idea that a lot of these sandstone formations looked a hell of a lot like gigantic spaceships. And truth be told, as I was standing there catching my breath, gazing upon these mysterious geologic behemoths, I could definitely see the vision. They look so out of place, like they don't belong, like they really are the petrified remains of crash-landed interstellar spacecraft from the days of yore. It's fun to think about, to be sure. Makes the imagination run wild. About as wild as a geologist will become after you tell 'em about this crazy theory, hahaha. 

Climbing up to the saddle

Petrified interstellar spacecraft

I reached the saddle, chugged some water. The northeast ridge towered in front of me, the thing steep, slabby, exposed, awesome, beautiful. I could already tell that it was gonna be a terrific climb, one perfectly suited within my comfort zone. Ahh yeah. Very exciting. 

I eyeballed the route, breaking up the thing into three chunks. The first chunk appeared to be the most difficult: a steep, somewhat featureless slope with minimal holds and a wee bit of exposure. Going straight up the thing woulda involved some class 5 stuff, so I angled north, finding a path that was no harder than class 3/4. Tricky for sure, but nothing too bad. Once surpassing this chunk I made my way to a vertical wall, heading south towards a tree that marked the beginning of the 2nd chunk. 

The first chunk. I went right

Class 3/4 crux, beginning of the 2nd chunk

I reached the tree, using it to surpass a class3/4 cruxy move up thin sandstone ledges. From there I continued zig-zaggin' up the ridge, mainly sticking to the south, following cracks and ledges, making my way from tree to tree. Eventually, I moseyed on over to the center of the ridge, the going a lot less steep now, a very obvious social trail and a cairn or two leading the way to the base of the 3rd and final chunk. 

The base of this final chunk may be the most difficult section, depending on what route you choose to take. Some angle south and climb up class 5 stuff, which ain't my cup of tea. I chose to angle north to climb up some easy lookin' class 3/4 stuff, the only downside being the exposure. It ain't particularly steep or precipitous, but if you were to slip you definitely risk the chance of losing control and falling for quite a ways. Not a place for mistakes, that's for sure. 

Base of the 3rd chunk. I went right

Onward to the summit!

I surpassed this final cruxy section, climbing up cracks and ledges until reaching flat ground. After that, it was a pretty straightforward jaunt to the summit; I simply followed a use trail the rest of the way. There was a final bit of scrambling just before the top, but all of if was class 2 and unexposed. 

Ahh man, what a summit. I sat down, the breeze gentle, not a soul to be seen. Visibility for miles. Panoramic views, high cliffs, deep canyons, mysterious hoodoos, rugged, rugged country. Wow. That's all I can say. Wow. I knew Kinesava and Mountain of the Sun would be hard to beat. Those two mountains had some of the best views I'd ever seen in my life. North Guardian blew both of them out of the water. Trust me. This mountain is the real deal. It's simply awesome. 

South

Southwest

Northwest

Northeast

I lingered for a few moments more, fantastic views all around me. This wouldn't be the last time I'd see these views, I knew that for sure. Yes indeed. Standing there, soaking it in, I knew I'd come back, probably more than once. And so, instead of my usual bidding of adieu, I said "until next time" and then moseyed off the summit, retracing my steps back from whence I came, taking it nice and slow and easy, the pace unhurried and casual.

Heading down...

And I moved through all three chunks one after the other, each one nice and slow, the going surprisingly easier on the way down. Except for that last chunk, the one just above the saddle, that one mostly featureless slope with minimal holds and a wee bit of exposure. That one was a tad tricky to downclimb, but the ol' crab-walk technique worked out just fine and before I knew it I was back on the saddle and heading down off the sandstone and into the forest of pines and shrubs and manzanita and cactus and all that delightful high desert flora which I've grown acquainted with this past month or so.   

And then I carried on to my next destination: Little Northgate. Ahh, Little Northgate. What a stubborn little summit. It sits just to the east of East Northgate Peak, a small, unassuming bump that I figured would be an easy summit to bag on my way back from North Guardian. Oh man. How wrong I was.

I'll be honest and admit that I didn't really research the route to get to this lil' nubbin, something I quickly came to regret. I naively thought that I could just wrap around East Northgate Peak from the north and hit the saddle and then climb up to the summit from there. But alas, this was not the case. I skirted around the north side of East Northgate and was met with impassable cliffs. Granted, I didn't really look too hard for a way down them, but my lazy, quick scans of the terrain revealed no route, no path, absolutely nothing that I could follow to reach the summit. Blasted cliffs. There's always gotta be some blasted cliffs.

Trying to find a way down the cliffs to Little Northgate

While I was standing there all disconcerted and flustered, a fist on my chin and shoulders hunched, a brilliant idea materialized in my empty mind: why not wrap around to the south? And so that's exactly what I did; I high-tailed it around to the southern side of East Northgate, skirting the sandstone slopes, trying to stay high so as not to lose precious vert. 

Wrapping around to the south...

I was not particularly hopeful. I expected failure. I walked along the side, knowing deep down that I wouldn't make it to the summit. Perhaps it was this absolute conviction of guaranteed defeat that led to my inevitable failure, my expected reality manifested into creation by powerful and malevolent psychic vibrations. Or maybe it was because of the cliffs on the southeast side of the peak that had been there for hundreds of thousands of years and I simply met up with them and couldn't dang nab go any dang nab farther. Who's to say?

Had me a countdown as I approached the cliffs. Said, "ok, I'm gonna get cliffed-out in 3...2...1...and yep, there they are."And that about ended my desire to reach Little Northgate. There was a fairly deep canyon separating me from the peak's south ridge; had I the gumption and grit I woulda found a way down into that canyon and up that ridge and on to the summit and it all woulda been fine and dandy and happy and nice. But I had other things in mind for the day and didn't really feel like wastin' all that energy just to reach the top of a lil' nubbin' of a peak. I may have caught a bit of the peakbagger fever since moving out west, but I'm slowly recovering, no longer filled with the insatiable desire to climb every bump, mound and protuberance I can find at all costs, no matter what. But I still ain't a fan of loose-ends and unfinished business, so of course it's only a matter of time before I head on back to give Little Northgate another go. Goodbye for now, Little Northgate. We'll see each other again...

Little Northgate

A tad disheartened by my first failure in these mountains, I decided to directly climb up the southeast slope of East Northgate, you know, to soothe my spirits and whatnot. Wrapping back around the southern side of the peak probably woulda been easier, but I ain't feel like doin' it so I damn well didn't damn do it. And I climbed up the south slope like a spider on a Buc-ee's billboard, moving along all sweaty and spingly-legged, the rock kinda crumbly and the going very very steep. And I moved up the thing, trying to find the path of least resistance, movin' and grovin' up some class 3 stuff until the terrain mellowed and I was left to sloggin' it up soft dirt through the pines and manzanita. 

East Northgate

Wildcat Peak from East Northgate Summit

And I got to the top for the 4th time and tapped the little rock on the summit and looked at the views and North Guardian was there in toto, the northeast ridge on full display, the whole thing lookin' grand and fantastic and incomprehensible and dang it—couldn't look at it no more. Too much, too much.

And then I looked to northeast and I saw Wildcat Peak lurkin' in the distance and I was like, "Ahh yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about" which is code for "yup, gonna be a bushwhack" and I left the summit and sprang down the use trail and ditched it .004 yoctoseconds later and descended the northwest face, the going a whole lot less sketchy than the downclimb off North Guardian. 

Descending the northwest slope

And I reached the bottom and hopped back on the trail and jogged on over to Wildcat Peak, eager to begin the charming little bushwhack that separated me from the summit. And I left the trail at a strange little meadow and pranced through the grass like leprechaun on a bed of coals and I made a bee-line to the bushes and trees and stuff, one moment out in the open, the next surrounded by woody and pokey and tough and prickly and crunchy and aromatic and leafy things, busting through the brush, my skin upset, my legs a lil' tired, my mind in cruise control.

Where I left the trail

Let the bushwhack commence!

Always gotta be a damn mylar balloon...

And I zig-zagged up to the summit, or at least what I thought was the summit. Turns out it was just a silly ol' no-name nothin' peak; the true summit was dang across the dang way and I'd wasted all this dang energy tryna get to this dang no-name nothin' peak and you know what—it doesn't matter. I corrected my error, descended into a brushy little bowl and then climbed up the true Wildcat Peak, the brush as brushy as ever. 

Wildcat Peak

Approaching the summit...

I'll admit I was a wee bit worried that there'd be no views whatsoever on the summit, you know, because of the brush and everything. But as I neared the top the stuff began to thin out, the animal trails became more apparent, the sky expanded, the views coming into picture. And I reached the summit, the thing a little brushy but not too horrible, and I ventured to the southeast to an open patch of earth and rock, and there were yellow flowers and the plants were bright and green and the views were there and they were much, much better than expected. And I could see North Guardian and both of the Northgate Peaks down below, rising up out of the ground like pointy little teeth. And South Guardian and the rugged terrain of western Zion stretched out even farther, the glorious West Temple a prominent knob in the distance. And off to the southeast stretched the namesake Wildcat Canyon, the thing wide and precipitous and isolated and scenic. And I lingered there at that open spot, again not thinking of anything in particular, simply standing around and meditatin' on the superb views extending in all directions.

Southwest

Southeast, Wildcat Canyon

West

North Wildcat

And then my gaze fell upon North Wildcat, a brushy, no-nothin' little nothin' mound of nothin' off to the northeast. Had no plans to climb it, had no desire to climb it. But my Little Northgate failure was still hurtin' the soul, and so, with nothing better to do, I decided to make a try of North Wildcat, embarking on what I hoped would be a compensatory excursion that would satisfy my disgruntled ego.

Wildcat Canyon

More brush...

I followed a brushy ridge off the northeast side of Wildcat Peak, descending through a patch of brush here and a patch of brush there the whole rest of the way to to no-nothin' summit. There was a particularly nasty band of brush just beneath the tippy-top; however, I'll be the first to admit that I didn't really look for easier paths. Just walked in one direction and took it. Perhaps there are easier ways. Perhaps not. 

Whatever may be the case, the summit of North Wildcat was, in my opinion, lackluster. Wildcat Peak was a much better objective; the thing had nicer views, nicer brush, a nicer approach, a nicer personality. The only thing North Wildcat had goin' for it was the occasional patch of pretty wildflowers, but these were few and far between. I lingered for about a minute on the wide and spacious summit, moving to various spots to find the true high point, and then called it a day and made my way back to the trail.

View south, Wildcat Peak right

Headin' off the mountain...

Back on the trail

Down off the summit, down through the manzanita and pines, an old, lone, solidified footprint in the dirt reminding me that this place gets some visits, at least once in a blue moon or something. And I hopped back through the brush and skipped on across the meadow and jumped on the trail and jogged almost the whole way back, stopping only once to chat with a family I'd met on my way back from North Guardian. I asked if they'd made it to the saddle and they said they didn't. Told me they summited East Northgate instead. Showed me some pictures, swapped some stories. And that was that. 

Back at the trailhead, the hike complete, my legs a tad tired, my mind at ease. It had been a good day with a bit of everything: trail runnin' and hikin' and scramblin' and scootin' and bushwhackin' and off trail wanderin' and terrific success and crushing failure and perseverance and hustle and laziness and impatience. What a day, what a day.

Much has happened since this outing. Been real busy at work as of late. Hadn't had much time to sit down at the ol' computer to write and whatnot. But I've managed to get out into the sticks a few more times since this hike, including a second visit of North Guardian on April 5th. Set a new speed record up the thing: trail to summit in 41 minutes, 4 seconds. Not too bad, but I can definitely do better. 

The Ant Hill, South Ariel Butte, Progeny Peak

03/24/26 

It was a race against the sun. Not a moment to waste. No dilly-dallying, no sight seeing, no moseying along at a leisurely pace. Night was on its way. I did not want to be there when it arrived. And where is there exactly? Somewhere on a mountain, that's where. I had driven up to the East Rim of Zion National Park, hoping to nab a few summits before the day came to a close. Unfortunately, I'd gotten quite a late start, so if I was gonna do what I'd had in mind I'd have to kick it into maximum gear and climb up these things as fast as I could. Progeny Peak. South Ariel Butte. The Ant Hill. All of 'em relatively close to the road, none of them particularly easy. Especially the Ant Hill. Oh boy. The Ant Hill. What a peak. I'd climb that one first; best to get the hard stuff over with before moving on to the "easier" things. 

It was shaping up to be a ridiculous endeavor, perhaps the most ridiculous of my entire life. My arms were already shot from a day of rock climbing at Lambs Knoll. Went with a group of coworkers, tried out a few routes. Chicken Head. Cowboy Arête. Invagination. None of 'em real easy, none of 'em real hard. Except Cowboy Arête. That one was a wee bit tricky. But we each took turns trying it out and we all made it up the thing, one way or another. By the time our exciting excursion to the Knoll came to a close, I could barely make a fist, my arms pretty much done for the day. Couldn't say the same for my legs though, so I suppose that's the underlying reason I set out on this silly peak bagging endeavor in the first place. Had to even things out. Had to be sore all over. Otherwise my chi would be unbalanced or something kooky like that. 

Cowboy Arête

I drove up to the East Rim of Zion National Park, found an empty pullout and immediately began walking up to the Ant Hill. It was just before 5:30pm. Wow, what a late start. Most folks were heading up or down the road, enjoying the scenic evening, maybe pulling off to the side to walk to some cool slickrock formations and chill and watch the sunset or something. That would've been a lot more pleasant than what I was doing, but I was determined and I kept going, relaxation and mirth be damned. 

Heading up to the Ant Hill

I decided to take a stupid way to reach the base of the Ant Hill, heading up a very steep slope just to the west of the standard approach. Why I chose this route I do not know, but it definitely added a little spice to the mix. At the end of the slope were some class 3 slabs that I had to surmount, the scramble interesting and quite fun. I enjoyed it while I could; this would be the last "easy" section before the harrowing climb to the summit. 

Once past the class 3 section, I continued north, the intimidating Ant Hill finally coming into view. It didn't look as scary as it did from the road, but my oh man, what a mountain. I could already tell that it was gonna be an absolute pain to climb, but I carried on regardless, angling towards its southwest face.

The Ant Hill

I snaked my way up the southwest face, the going steep, slippery and loose. The gnarly slickrock terrain of the East Rim stretched out before me, the views more and more spectacular the higher I went. Up and up loose rock and slippery sandstone, I shimmied my way across a ledge, trying to gain the exposed south ridge. A few funky moves later and I was on my way to the ridge, something I was not looking forward to climbing in the slightest.

Ahh, the south ridge. I'd read about it in Stav's trip report of his route to the summit, and man, he wasn't kidding. Said the thing was "vertigo inducing" and brother, he was right. The ridge itself isn't too bad. The thing is slanted at a comfortable angle; it ain't terrifyingly steep, no worse than class 3. But it's mostly featureless, the rock quality is wayyyyyyyy worse than that on Tabernacle Dome, and the exposure is absolutely insane. If you were to slip or lose control...that would be it. 

I lingered at the base for a moment, debating whether or not I could comfortably climb down the thing on my way back. I never climb up something that I don't think I can climb back down, and this one was definitely treading the line. I figured that since I'd made the effort to get this far I might as well give it a try, so carefully, slowly, I moseyed my way up the thing, my brain firing on all cylinders, locked in and ready to turn around at a moment's notice. 

The south ridge. Good lord.

I got about halfway up the thing, making it past most of the featureless section. After that, I tried to climb up stuff that had some type of texture or holds, making sure to test each one since the rock quality was so bad. Finally, after spending many a careful moment on the south ridge, I finally made it to more agreeable terrain, climbing up loose ledges to a flat spot just beneath the final push to the summit.

The final push to the summit. I climbed up the shady, brushy gully

I wasn't too stoked by this point and strongly debated turning around. That electrifying ascent up the south ridge shivered my timbers right to the core, and I knew that going down would be a slow, tedious exercise in extreme caution. It all came down to time, and I figured that if I was gonna climb the other two peaks that evening I'd better turn around while I could. 

But alas, the summit was near and the thrill of adventure mixed with my endless curiosity propelled me forward. I could see the rest of the route to the summit, a shady gully leading up to near-vertical walls. I stared out at the views to the east and west, the sun falling from the sky and casting long shadows on the white cliffs and dark canyons. I'd made it this far, I'd done the work, I'd made it past the crux. Might as well keep going, you know? And so, after tightening my shoes, I traversed into the gully, beginning the final ascent to the summit.

Didn't take no pictures until I reached the summit; I was too focused on the route. The gully was steep and loose and sandy, and once I'd reached the near-vertical walls I had to focus up to find the path of least resistance. Fortunately, the rock quality was a little better up there, and the holds were nice and big and once I found the correct route I scampered on up to the top no problem.

Ant Hill summit, looking towards Nippletop and Co.

Ant Hill summit, looking towards East Temple

I probably spent three minutes on the summit. A picture here, a picture there, a moment or two to absorb the scene, and that was it. No register to be found, no sign of any recent human activity. The only evidence of anybody being up there at all was a small stack of rocks marking the spot to begin the descent. 

A slight breeze, long shadows, night on its way, the day coming to a close, the terrain rugged and steep and sharp and crazy and unfathomable. I could hear the road down below, hear the cars and the motorcycles, hear the plops of sweat falling from my face and the crunch of dirt underfoot. And the breeze rolled on through, gently caressing my shirt, and the lighting became stranger, weaker, painting the surrounding country in a whole new way, changing the tone, changing the vibe. I stood up there for a few more seconds, thinking of nothing in particular, my mind at ease and ready for the descent. One last look, one last sweep, one last realization that I'd never see this view again, never see it the same way, never see it with the same lighting, the same sounds, the same sensations. Goodbye, Ant Hill. You won't be missed.

Looking down...

Needless to say, the descent sucked. Absolutely sucked. I carefully made my way down the near-vertical section and dropped down into the gully, kicking down rocks and sand the whole flim-flammin' way. Ripped my shorts, scraped my legs. And then it was off to the south ridge, the one thing that I knew would be the worst of it, the one thing that I'd least been looking forward to, the one thing I knew would take at least three years to descend carefully, the one thing that would give me a taste of my mortality, the one thing that demanded perfection. No mistakes. No mess ups. Had to be perfect. One hundred percent. 

Woulda been easier with approach shoes, that's for sure. My trailrunners didn't have the greatest purchase, and I found myself slipping once every two minutes, my butt and hands gripping the slick sandstone like a lumberjack would his favorite axe. I recall taking a break just above the featureless section, my brain on fire, my lips dry, my arms and hands no longer sore from a day of rock climbing. I looked at the drop, absorbed the exposure, said, "Well, if I lose control I'll just aim for that tree." And so I began crab-walkin' down towards said tree, a small, scraggily pine that had decided to make its home in the most disgusting sandstone imaginable. With great skill and an ounce of adrenaline I made it to the tree without slipping once, totally in control, so focused on the task at hand I didn't even perceive the passage of time. I looked up, looked down, chuckled, and then continued on with the descent.

Holy Moly

Class 3 ledges

I traversed across some ledges, the going a lil' tricky but nothing compared to what I'd just done. I crab-walked down the southwest face, feelin' light as a feather, my arms and legs fresher than a baked loaf straight out of the oven. I hopped and skipped my way down, found those class 3 slabs, descended 'em, and then jogged the rest of the way back to the car. I hopped in, sweaty as can be, and immediately drove to a pullout at the base of South Ariel Butte. Shadows all around, the lighting orange, the summit bathed in golden light, fading fast. Had to make it up there before it disappeared. 

Heading up South Ariel Butte

I walked up the slickrock, my quads on fire, my face a waterfall of sweat and salt. The cars shrank, the road became a thin line, the occasional laugh or shout drifted through the air from far below, people out and about, walking along the road, sitting in their cars, sitting on the ground, watching the sky turn dark, watching the orange cliffs, the setting sun, the cooling temps, the transition of day into night. None paid any mind to the freak on the mountain, the one loony who was walking up from the south chasing the last dying rays of sunlight on the summit. 

Traversing west

The loony made it just beneath the summit and began traversing west so as to avoid cliffs and exposure and crumbly rock and ridiculous scrambling. The loony followed a social trail, weaving up and down through manzanita and pine, a cliff above, a cliff below, the Ant Hill looming to the west, the golden light fading fast. The loony scrambled up some stuff, started heading north, moved through loose talus and crumbly rock. The loony gained a ridge of sorts and scampered up class 3 stuff, reaching the summit just as the last rays of sunlight evaporated away from the rocks like an ephemeral pool of tepid water. And the loony sat down, took photos, watched as the colors on the cliffs turned from orange to red, watched the sun dip below the horizon, watched the shadow of the Earth rise from the east, twilight in full swing, dusk well on its way. 

Class 3 stuff to the summit

Nippletop and Co. from South Ariel Butte

Crazy Quilt Mesa

Aries Butte

West, the Ant Hill dominating most of the picture

I stayed up there for a minute or two, debating whether or not I could make it to Progeny before everything became completely dark. The longer I debated the less chance I'd have of success, so, with one last looksie around, I climbed back down the class 3 stuff, scampered on down to the west side of the mountain and followed the social trail back to the steep slickrock. I heard voices from down below, voices originating from the now popular "Many Pools" hike, voices echoing off the cliffs, laughs and shouts and drones and strange mumblings, all of 'em imperceptible. I stopped for a moment to try and find the originators of these noises, my eyes scanning the canyon down below. There were probably a few groups down there but I never saw 'em. Just heard 'em. Crazy how far sound can travel.

I made it to the car, my legs aching, my arms back to feelin' sore as ever. I was about done for the day and considered calling it, wanting nothing more than to just head on home and cook up some pasta and finally relax. But I'd saved the easiest peak for last, the route to the summit fairly quick and straightforward, the going no harder than class 2 (as long as I stayed on route). I started the car and left the choice up to fate, letting the wind guide my hand. And sure enough the wind guided my hand to a pullout at the base of Progeny Peak. The sun had set, everything now in shadow, the tallest peaks reflecting the light emanating from beneath the horizon. I grabbed a headlamp, sighed, and jogged up to the summit.

Headin' up to Progeny Peak

Progeny Peak summit

What ensued was a complete exercise in selfishness. I didn't climb it for the beauty, didn't climb it for the workout, didn't climb it to see the sights and smell the smells. I climbed it simply for the sake of climbing it, because I could climb it, because it was there and it was a challenge and it was all for me, me, me. I climbed it for the ego, my mind was set and I moved up the mountain with singular purpose and great efficiency. And I was completely soaked in sweat and huffing and puffing like workhorse about to die and my legs were numb and my lungs on fire and I was hackin' loogies left and right and I scurried past Two Pines Arch, not stopping once, no pictures, no enjoyment. And I angled east and scampered onward and upward, reaching the summit at dusk, out of breath, eyes wide and feelin' quite silly truth be told. And I lingered for less than a minute, snapped some quick photos, donned the headlamp and then immediately began the descent, retracing my steps through the growing darkness. 

The Ant Hill from Progeny Peak

Heading down, view west

Dusky hikin'

And I moved off the mountain fairly quickly, the route burned into my mind, only getting off track once or twice. I saw the headlights of vehicles moving up and down the road, the sounds of their engines growing louder with each passing step. I hopped down to the road, jumped in the car, rolled down the windows. Folks were making their way back from watching the sunset on the Canyon Overlook trail, all of 'em lumbering along the side of the road, some with headlamps, some with phone flashlights, most with nothing at all. It was just before 8:30pm. Holy moly. Three peaks, three hours. Felt much longer, I can tell you that much.

I drove off, coasting down through the tunnel, driving out of the park to pasta and peppers and a nice comfy bed. It had been a glorious day, one so glorious it almost felt like two. Rock climbin' in the morning and afternoon, peak baggin' in the evening. Yep. This was a good one, a genuine, bona fide shirt and tie adventure. One thing's for sure though: I'm never climbing the Ant Hill again without a rope. Sure, approach shoes would be fine and all, but that exposure was not to my liking. Like I mentioned in a previous post, it's all relative. I've done sketchier things, but for some reason, whatever reason, I simply didn't vibe with that south ridge. Some people will find it easy, some will find it hard. To each their own. 

As for me, it's no bueno. But everything else was sweet. I'll have to go back one day to pay South Ariel and Progeny a proper visit. No rushin' around. No ego scrambling. Just a relaxing day in the mountains, one where I can take my time and appreciate the beauty of the summit.